


Pants on Fire

by Car



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fix-It, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, The Deadlights pull a Liar Liar on Richie, Truth Spells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26090821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Car/pseuds/Car
Summary: "My name is Richard Tozier," he said to his reflection. Easy. So far, so good. "I was born on March seventh, nineteen seventy-six." Also good. Nice. Okay, now for the kicker... "I am six foot fff–" He blinked. The words stuck awkwardly in his throat. "I am six foot ffff–!" He stared into his eyes through the mirror as he watched them fill with dread."I am six footffff–ucking two!" he cried. In his reflection, his eyes widened comically. Oh, this was bad. Something was wrong, something was so, so wrong.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 34
Kudos: 470





	Pants on Fire

**Author's Note:**

> So this was kind of my accidental baby this summer! It started as my B project as I worked on my FBDO fic, and kind of evolved into this! 
> 
> This may be the longest one shot I've ever written. Also on accident. The Losers are very talkative. 
> 
> This is also my kind of kiss goodbye to my summer break. School starts up again next week and I have to go back to being a responsible teacher again and I'm not excited. Sigh. Adulting.
> 
> I'm actually excited and proud of this though! It was a lot of fun to write, so I hope you have just as much fun reading it! ENJOY!<3

**Pants on Fire**

OOO

The smell of grilled bacon and eggs drifted through the salty air, as the mist that had settled across the landscape just started to dissipate in the early morning sunrise.  
  
Mike Hanlon sipped his weak, black coffee, the tiny tea-bag like bundle of coffee grounds barely adding flavor to the large thermos he had warmed over the fire, but it didn't matter, it was the caffeine he needed in the end, and at least it was better than instant.   
  


His trek down the west coast had led him to a cliff somewhere in Oregon, overlooking the beach and ocean. His old, rusted truck had given him a few scares since leaving Seattle, but he kept promising her that once she got him to LA, she would get a nice, long rest. Until then, he stopped off at a new spot every night, set up his tent and basked in the joy of taking in any horizon that wasn't Derry.  
  


A soft hum at his side pulled Mike away from his serene, foggy morning daze, the phone on the log next to him vibrating against his portable charger. It wasn't unusual to get calls or texts from the Losers while he drifted around the country, so he sipped his coffee, clicked the little green circle on his screen, and held the phone to his ear.  
  


"Hello?"  
  


"Mikey?" came Bill's slightly panicked voice.  
  


"Bill?" He asked, sitting up straight in surprise. A panicked Bill was never a good thing. Especially this early in the morning.  
  


"Mikey," he croaked again. "Sorry to cut your trip short, b-buddy, but you gotta get to LA _stat_. We got a f-fuckin' problem."  
  


_**Earlier...  
  
**_

Richie Tozier was in trouble.   
  


"What are you talking about?" Bill asked through the phone, his voice heavy and groggy with sleep. Richie paced back and forth through his living room, the hand not holding his phone running through his hair wildly.   
  


"Exactly what I said, dude!" he cried. He caught his reflection in one of his windows out of the corner of his eye. His hair was a mess, his glasses were crooked, and he hadn't even put on fucking pants before shit had completely hit the fan. _Fuck_.  
  


On the other end of the phone, Bill sighed. "Okay. So, b-back up. You _can't lie_? What does that even mean? Like, contractually?"  
  


"Physically!" Richie cried, cringing as he heard his own problem relayed back to him. "I _physically_ can't lie, dude. Like, serious _Liar Liar_ shit over here. Un-fucking-able to do it."  
  


Bill went quiet for a moment before asking quietly, "For real?"  
  


Richie let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a growl. "Yes, Billium! For real! Hence the fucking panicked phone call at ass-o-clock in the morning!"  
  


"Okay, okay!" Bill hummed as Richie continued his frantic pacing around his living room. "How do you know for sure?" he asked finally. "Like, how d-did you figure this out?"  
  


How did he figure this out? _How did he figure this out_ , Bill asks. Richie ran a hand over his face in anguish. Wasn't that just the million dollar question? How _did_ Richie figure it out, _Bill_?   
  


Why, Richie had picked up a nice young man at the bar, _Bill._ Mid-thirties, sort of preppy, nice body, brown hair, brown eyes, short, feisty.   
  


Oh, did that sound _familiar_ , Bill? Fucking _remind you anyone_ , Bill?   
  


Richie's dick had certainly noticed some similarities to its favorite subject, and seemed pretty fucking happy about it. Particularly with his glasses off in a dark room where the specifics were kind of hazy and Richie's imagination could fill in some gaps. Maybe sprinkle in a couple of freckles across his nose and bush up the eyebrows a bit, add a scar to his cheek. Imagine him frowning and calling him a fucknut. Yeah, that'll do it.   
  


Starting to get where this was _going_ , Bill?  
  


"I don't normally do this kind of thing," the guy had purred, leading Richie back to his bed by his wrist.  
  


"Oh yeah?" Richie asked playfully, knowing that was probably not the case, but letting him pull him along because he was fucking horny.   
  


The guy nodded, biting his lip coquettishly. "Yeah, so I better make this one count, huh?" he ran a finger flirtatiously down Richie's chest and began fumbling with the fly of his pants, smiling up at him from underneath his not-quite-as-long-but-it'll-do eyelashes. "What do you want, _Richie_?"   
  


Richie grinned. "What do I want?"  
  


He nodded. " _Anything._ Your wish is my command."  
  


Richie wrapped his arms around the guy's shoulders, holding himself to him, feeling his excitement though his underwear as his pants fell to his ankles. He closed his eyes in relief. It had been awhile. "Wish, huh?" Richie breathed, " _God_ , I wish you were Eddie."  
  


What.  
  


" _What?_ "  
  


"Uh..." Richie mumbled intelligently.  
  


"Who the _fuck_ is Eddie?!"  
  


The guy, understandably, didn't stick around much longer after that, gathering up his things and grumbling about 'fucking closet cases' as he slammed the door behind him. Richie had stood, dumbfounded, for a moment, before allowing himself a little, self-deprecating laugh at himself.   
  


Man, he hadn't done anything that stupid in a while. Clearly his forced absence from Eddie was starting to get to him. Guy needed to hurry up and get his divorce hashed out so he could have time to waste shooting the shit with the Losers again. Figures Myra would find some way to ruin his life once more before she was finally gone forever.  
  


He wondered how much Eddie still had to do before it was all finalized. When he texted the group chat about it the previous week, he had said it was just about done.   
  


It wouldn't hurt to check in again. Get a more concrete timeframe.   
  


' _Hey, Spaghetti!_ ' he began typing in his and Eddie's private, ongoing text conversation. It didn't matter that it was well into the middle of the night back in New York, he wouldn't see it until morning, anyway. ' _Just wanted to check in and see how the divorce is going. Can't wait until you're officially single so my obsessing over you wont feel so creepy!_ '  
  


Wait.   
  


Furrowing his eyebrows, he quickly deleted the last sentence. Shaking his head, he tried again.  
  


' _Hey Spaghetti! Just wanted to check in and see how the divorce is going. Wouldn't mind marrying you myself when all that is over. Second time's a charm!'  
  
_

Delete, delete, delete.   
  


' _Hey Spaghetti! Just wanted to check in and see how the divorce is going. Funny story, I was just about to fuck this guy that looked just like you!"  
  
_

Delete, delete, delete.   
  


' _Hey Spaghetti! Just wanted to check in and see how the divorce is going. I'm absolutely, heart wrenchingly, head over heels in love with you!"  
_

"What the _fuck..._ " he mumbled. He deleted the whole text this time, sleeping his phone with suddenly sweaty hands. On uneasy legs, he ambled down the hall and into the bathroom, looking desperately at his reflection in the mirror. He looked like shit.   
  


"My name is Richard Tozier," he said to his reflection. Easy. So far, so good. "I was born on March seventh, nineteen seventy-six." Also good. Nice. Okay, now for the kicker... "I am six foot fff–" He blinked. "I am six foot ffff–!"  
  


He stared into his eyes through the mirror as he watched them fill with dread.   
  


"I am six foot ffff–ucking two!" he cried. In his reflection, his eyes widened comically.  
  


What the fuck. He had been telling people he was six four for years. _Years.  
  
_

This wasn't good. This was _bad_. Something was wrong, something was so, so wrong. He needed help. He needed to call for help. He needed...  
  


He needed to throw up.  
  


_Then_ he needed to call Bill.   
  


“Just get over here,” he pleaded back in the present, and hung up to go put on some damn pants.  
  


O  
  


Bill, still clad in his pajamas and looking exactly like one would expect someone woken up in the middle of the night by their crazy friend's crazy ramblings might look, crossed his arms and his legs, leveling Richie with a critical glare.   
  


"So... You can't lie?"  
  


"Correct."  
  


"You can _only_ tell the tr-truth?"  
  


"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me Turtle."  
  


Bill pursed his lips. "And it's not just speaking. You tried writing, too." It wasn't a question.  
  


"I did indeed, Bill my dear. My fingers are against me, too. Oh, speaking of,” he reached into his pocket and took out his phone, switching it off and tossing it to Bill. “Hold onto this for me. Save me from myself. I don’t need to end up in jail today. Or the hospital.”  
  


Bill eyed the device warily but stuck it in his pocket. “I don’t wanna know.”  
  


“Thanks for not asking.”  
  


Bill hummed, leaning back into the couch as Richie continued to pace around in front of him. "Okay. So what you're saying," he mused, "is th-that if I were to ask you a question, you would _have_ to answer that question truthfully."   
  


"As long as it's within my realm of knowledge, yes." Richie knew this because he tried to lie about the capital of Liechtenstein, only to realize he didn't actually know the capital of Liechtenstein in the first place. So unfortunately, this random bout of nonsense couldn't even give him infante knowledge for his trouble, which was, frankly, bullshit.   
  


"So, if I were to ask you what you really thought of my b-books–?"  
  


Richie snorted. "I'd tell you they're great, but the endings suck. C'mon Big Bill, I'd tell you that even without divine interference."   
  


Bill flipped him off, but hummed again, letting everything marinate within his brain for a few moments. "Okay, Rich," he began cryptically, "let's see about _this_. Remember Mrs. Moran's class, f-fourth grade?"  
  


Richie's eyes widened as his feet suddenly stilled their pacing. "Yes," he replied cautiously.  
  


Bill nodded. "Good, good. So, you _also_ remember a certain less than f-flattering artistic rendering of said Mrs. Moran that she just so happened to find near my d-desk, then, yes?"  
  


" ...I seem to recall that, yeah."  
  


"Tell me R-Rich," Bill continued, seemingly getting sick, perverse pleasure out of watching Richie squirm, the asshole. "Can you tell me, what oh-so-creative nickname was written on that muh-masterpiece in place of our dear teacher's name?"  
  


Richie winced. "...Mrs. Moron?"  
  


"That's the one." Bill uncrossed his legs and crossed his arms, leaning forward challengingly. "Mrs. Moran asked the whole class who was responsible for that picture, remember that? She k-kept us all in for recess until whoever it was f-fessed up. Did anyone f-fess up, Rich?"  
  


"...No..."  
  


"Correct, they did not. And do you remember, _Richie_ , who ended up getting _blamed_ for the p-picture, since it was found near his d-desk?"  
  


Richie tried to smile as innocently as possible. He was pretty sure it came out more as a grimace. "...You?"  
  


"Me!" Bill cried. " _I_ got blamed! And _you_ told me you had no idea who made that picture. You said, and I quote," he cleared his throat, morphing his voice in a high pitched, nasally approximation of young Richie, " _'Man dude, whoever let you take the fall for that is a ruh-real buttmunch,_ ' but I think you _did_ know who made that p-picture, _didn't you_ Richie?"  
  


Richie gulped, Bill's angry little face glaring up at him. He opened his mouth, his words catching in his throat painfully. He coughed awkwardly.   
  


"You have to t-tell me!" Bill cried, pointing in his face. "If you know the truth, you have to say!"  
  


"Oh my _god_ ," Richie groaned. "Fine! Yes, I know who made the dumb picture! Jesus, you're like, a rabid little ferret."  
  


Bill continued glaring murderously. "Who was it?" he demanded.  
  


"You _do_ know that that was literally over thirty years ago, right?"  
  


"Who made it, Rich?"  
  


"We were _ten_!"  
  


"Rich!"  
  


"Ugh!" Richie cried, throwing his arms up into the air. "Fine! It was me! I drew the stupid fucking picture! Ya happy?!"  
  


"Ha!" Bill exclaimed. "I knew it!" Halfheartedly, he swatted Richie in the shoulder. "I got a week's detention for that, d-dude! Fuck you!"  
  


"Oh my _god!_ " Richie groaned. "Again, thirty, _fucking_ , years ago, Billium! Can we focus on the current problem, please? Do you believe me now?"  
  


Bill pouted, still bitter, but nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I believe you. Wouldn't be the wuh-weirdest thing to happen to any of us." He paused. "A monster like you wouldn't admit something like that unless you absolutely h-had to, after all."   
  


Richie rolled his eyes. "I mean, as far as federal offenses I've committed, getting you in trouble in elementary school is fairly low on the totem. I _did_ kill a guy." He frowned, blinking at himself in surprise. "Oh, _fuck_ that. I _cannot_ be walking around just telling people that shit. No way, _Jose_. Let's get this shit fixed _pronto_."  
  
Bill nodded, sending Richie off to make them a pot of coffee as he called their resident expert on all (most likely) clown related nonsense.   
  


O  
  


After a two hour drive to PDX, a two and a half hour flight from Portland to Los Angeles, and another hour drive from LAX to Richie's house in stop and go LA traffic, Mike looked surprisingly bright eyed and bushy tailed upon his arrival.   
  


"One of you famous, rich assholes is gonna have to pay to ship my truck here from Portland, I hope you know," he told them teasingly, tossing aside his duffel bag and pulling each of them into an amazing Mike Hanlon hug.   
  


"Bill should do it, he makes more than me," Richie replied easily, before immediately groaning and covering his face with his hands.  
  


Bill and Mike shared a look. "But first," Mike chuckled, "catch me up."  
  


It turned out getting Mike up to speed on the situation was pretty easy, given how little information they had to begin with. That, coupled with Mike's already easy going attitude toward the supernatural, made it all a blessedly easy sell. Richie didn't even need to spill one of his innermost secrets to convince him.  
  


"And it just started out of nowhere?" Mike clarified, flipping through an old, beat up notebook he had pulled out of his bag at some point while Richie and Bill had explained. "You could lie just fine one second, and then all of a sudden, you couldn't?"  
  


Richie made a face. "It's not like I was just sitting around spouting off lies like a goddamn fountain, Mikey," he scoffed. "I wasn't even consciously _trying_ to lie, I just, fucking, vomited out the truth. Figuratively speaking."  
  


Mike chuckled to himself, continuing to flip through his notebook. "And at the time of said figurative truth vomit, what were you doing?"  
  


"I was about to get laid."  
  


Bill choked on the coffee he was in the process of drinking, coughing. "Dude!" he cried. "TMI, holy sh-shit. Beep beep."  
  


Richie crossed his arms across his chest, gawking childishly. "I can't help it!" he squawked. "Do you think I _want_ to tell you this shit?! Don't ask if you don't want to know, man!"   
  


"He has a point," Mike agreed with a grin. Bill stuck out his tongue and rolled his eyes, muttering _'gross'_ under his breath. "So, you and this guy were about to be intimate?"  
  


It's nearly Richie's turn to choke after that. Sure, he'd been out for just about a year at this point, but it didn't mean he was _used_ to it. Especially dropped so casually in conversation, even with the Losers. He cleared his throat and nodded, not trusting his traitorous mouth to not add any more damning details.   
  


Sweet, sweet Mike, just hummed and kept flipping through his notebook.   
  


"Okay Rich," he said finally, passing the notebook over to Richie, his finger marking a paragraph about halfway down the page. "I think I may have found something. Read this, and see if it feels like what you're going through. If so, it's all probably related to the Deadlights. Now, there isn't a lot of info out there on this subject, since you, Stan, and Bev are the only people I'm aware of who have looked into the Deadlights and survived, but we'll take what we can get."  
  


Richie skimmed over the paragraph, picking up on words like 'repression', 'secret', 'fear', and worst of all 'unwilling expulsion of subconscious thoughts and desires when questioned or in conversation'. Flushing, he thrust the notebook back into Mike's hands. "Yup," he croaked. "Sounds about right."   
  


Bill grabbed the notebook next, reading (far more studiously than Richie had, the teacher's pet) and nodding along with the words, while Mike pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. "Okay," Mike drawled, drumming his fingers on the table. "While I get the impression you don't want this new development getting around to too many other people–"  
  


" _Fuck_ no."  
  


"–I _do_ think we need to consult with the experts. See if Bev and Stan can give us a better idea about what's going on."  
  


Richie sighed, but nodded. "Yeah, yeah, you're right," he agreed. "As long as we can keep Eddie out of this, it should be fine."  
  


The room fell silent.  
  


...Fuck.  
  


"Wh-what's Eddie got to do with any–?"  
  


"Bathroom!" Richie cried, like, _loudly_ , speed-walking to the bathroom and thanking whatever higher power was looking out for him that he _actually_ had to piss and made a mental note to grab a nice big glass of water (or three) when he got back out there.   
  


O  
  


Bev had been open about her experiences in the Deadlights from the beginning, never giving them the full details necessarily, but enough to keep their insatiable questions at bay without opening up any new wounds or saying more than what she deemed was safe for them to know.   
  


They didn't know about Stanley until twenty-seven years later. Once the clown was officially dead.  
  


"So wait," Eddie had interrupted Stan while he was explaining everything to them at the quarry as they washed up. "You looked into the Deadlights while that fucking nightmare painting went all facehugger on you when we were kids?"

Stan made a face. "Could we not reference _Alien_ while we talk about my trauma, please?"  
  


" _We ain't outta here in ten minutes, we won't need no rocket to fly through space!_ " Richie quipped, snorting when Bev splashed him in the face.   
  


Stan didn't tell them much more than that, save for pulling Richie aside while they were walking back to the Townhouse, his hand warm and comfortable on his elbow as he guided him away from the rest of the group.   
  


"I almost didn't come back, you know," he said quietly, to Richie's surprise. "But I..." he paused, taking a deep breath. "I stopped myself at the last minute. I realized it wasn't just about me. I couldn't do that to Eddie. Or you." And at Richie's stunned silence, added solemnly, "You saw what would have happened if I'd gone through with it. In the Deadlights. We both did."   
  


Oh yeah, Richie had seen alright. Seen _exactly_ what could have happened had Stan not been there to pull he and Eddie out of the way of It's spooky spider death claw.  
  


Back in LA, he shivered. It wasn't something he liked to think about.  
  


Thankfully, by the time he had returned from the bathroom (and fetching a literal pitcher of water, to Bill's amusement), Mike and Bill had let the Eddie thing go, at least for now, focusing instead on coordinating a video conference with Stan and Bev.   
  


"Ben says Bev just got up, but she'll be on once she gets some coffee in her," Mike explained, tapping around on Richie's laptop until a picture of a wide awake Stan and Patty filled the screen. "Morning, guys!"   
  


"Good morning!" Patty chirped as Stan waved lazily at her side, sipping what Richie assumed was coffee out of a delightfully bright teal mug reading " _Early Bird_ " in bubbly black lettering above a tiny cartoon robin.  
  


"Patty cake!" Richie cheered, poking his head into the screen above Mike's. "You are looking as radiant as ever, my darlin'. Truly a sight for sore eyes this shitty, stressful morning."  
  


Bill beamed, poking his head into the frame as well. "He _really_ means that, b-be flattered."  
  


With a cheery doorbell chime, Ben and Bev joined the screen not long after, Ben looking far more awake than Bev, who sipped delicately at a large mug of black coffee, her eyes barely open and her curls mussed in a messy bedheaded ponytail.   
  


"Hey guys, sorry we're late," Ben greeted them with a smile, giving a little wave. "Is everything okay over there? You sounded a little weird in your text."  
  


"That depends on your definition of okay," Mike said with a tired smile.  
  


Bev took a long slurp from her cup. "What did you do this time, Tozier?"  
  


Richie gasped in mock offense, as Stan snorted and Patty giggled. "We're going with a Richie related incident for this one?" Patty asked playfully. "Stan and I were making bets."  
  


Bev nodded. "Oh yeah. Mike ending his camping trip early to fly to LA? Insisting we all video chat at the asscrack of dawn? _A suspicious lack of Eddie_? This has Richie nonsense written all over it."  
  


"Oh, she's good," Bill laughed. Richie pouted next to him.  
  


Stan hummed around his mug, locking eyes with Richie through the screen. "Yes, where _is_ Eddie? I noticed he wasn't included in the group text about this."  
  


Richie felt his stomach drop, his voice catching in his throat as he swallowed down his impulse to blurt out his every immediate thought. _He's not here because I may puke out my heart the moment I see him,_ he thought hysterically. _Greet him with a peppy little 'ah there's the love of my life! How ya doin' this morning, you beautiful man? I love you!'  
  
_

Thankfully, Mike jumped in before he could truth vomit all over again, explaining that they really just needed Stan and Bev's Deadlight expertise, and Richie seriously considered kissing him right there.   
  


"The Deadlights?" Bev asked, looking alert for the first time since she had joined the chat. "Rich, are you still having Deadlight nightmares?"  
  


"I mean," he drawled, "I'm still having _nightmares_ , not sure if they're Deadlight related or otherwise, though. But this isn't about that."  
  


Ben furrowed his brow in concern. "Then what's wrong?"  
  


Richie gulped. "I can't lie." He took a deep breath, waiting for their reaction, and then, when no one said anything, exhaled loudly. "Wow, I can't believe no one's jumping to comment on that. What the fuck, guys?"  
  


"Oh, was that the whole sentence?" Stan asked. "I thought you were prefacing a big, grandiose George Washington-type announcement or something. _'I cannot tell a lie. I, am an asshole'_."  
  


Richie rolled his eyes. "No, you dick. I literally can't lie. And it fucking sucks, so please, keep making fun of me for it if you want to see me cry."  
  


Bev put down her coffee off screen, suddenly extremely invested. "Like, at all? Are you sure?"  
  


Bill leaned into frame again, nodding. "I t-tested him all morning. Oh! Stan! Do you remember the Mrs. Muh-Moron incident? Fourth grade?" He jabbed his thumb in Richie's direction. "Guess who was fucking b-behind that?"  
  


" _Wow._ Not cool, Rich. Bill got like, a week of detention for that."  
  


"Th-that's that I said!"  
  


"Okay, can we fucking focus for a second here, please?!" Richie cried. "I am _literally_ in crisis."  
  


Bev giggled, pouting a little sympathetically. "Aww, honey, I'm sorry. I know being sincere is tough for you, we'll try to be nicer."   
  


Richie, deadpan, flipped her off.  
  


"So you think this has to do with the Deadlights?" Ben asked, sweetly trying to get them back on topic. Mike smiled gratefully for the segue.   
  


"I found something in my notes that seemed to fit," he explained, pulling out his phone and tapping around on it. "I'll text you all a picture of what I wrote."  
  


As each of the Losers checked their phones (Patty leaning over Stan to read his), Richie wrung his hands awkwardly, watching each of their faces for the first sign of reaction. Unsurprisingly, Stan was the first to hum in recollection.   
  


"You know," he mused. "Now that you mention it..."  
  


Bev nodded, still reading off of her screen but nodding fervently. "No, yeah. I haven't thought about it in _ages_ , but I remember this happening to me, too."  
  


Mike, Bill, and Richie all let out a simultaneous sigh of relief.   
  


"So you've been through this as well?" Mike asked, hopefully.  
  


"And it doesn't last for-fucking-ever?" Richie added.  
  


Bev nodded, picking up her coffee to take another long sip as she tried to think back. "Yeah, it was like... a year or so after I left Derry, I think. While I was living with my aunt."  
  


"Same," Stan agreed. "It was about a year after we moved. I don't think it lasted very long, so I didn't think much about it. I remember thinking it was just because I was stressed. Like I felt like I was going crazy." Frowning, Patty held his hand as he talked. He smiled back at her sweetly. "I couldn't remember what it had been like before we moved and I was having all these nightmares that didn't make sense. Then, suddenly, I couldn't control what I was saying. I remember coming home from school and just kind of blurting out everything I was feeling to my mom, how tired I was of things not making sense, and now anxious it was making me." He paused. "I think that ultimately led to me finally going to therapy and getting diagnosed with OCD."  
  


"It was similar for me," Bev mused. "The nightmares, and the stress of not remembering Derry. Or, only remembering the shitty parts about Derry, really. The things kids like Bowers and Greta said about me, the rumors." She smiled, sadly but fondly. "My aunt and I had a lot of heart-to-hearts after the initial breakdown, when I admitted to her that I hated being a girl sometimes. We had a lot of conversations about dealing with womanhood, fitting into society's expectations." She paused to sip at her coffee and to level Richie with a teasing smirk. "I honestly assumed it was all just dramatic, teenage, hormone-y angst, but I guess not."  
  


Richie snorted. "I _do_ have a flair for the dramatic."  
  


"And the maturity of a thirteen year old," Stan added with a grin. Richie blew him a kiss.  
  


"So, that explains how to fix it then, right?" Patty asked quietly, her eyes flitting between the various screens. "You just need to talk about your fears and your feelings. Officially get all the things the monster used to hurt you out of your head, and whatever is forcing you to tell the truth should stop."  
  


"Easier said th-than done, for Richie," Bill snickered, which, rude. But most importantly...  
  


"Uh, are you guys forgetting something?" Richie asked, annoyed. "The super public announcement of my homosexuality? Firing my writers? Writing my own shit? Fucking– baring my soul to the world?" He shook his head. "I fucking _cried_ on _Conan_! You guys made fun of me about it for weeks! Pretty sure my clown demons have been successfully exorcised."  
  


"Well," Ben began quietly, scratching at the back of his neck. "That's not... _entirely_ true..."  
  


Richie's mouth fell open. "What?! The fuck do you mean, Haystack? Of course it's true! I can't _lie_ , remember?!"  
  


Ben bit his lip, hesitating, when Stan scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest. "Oh _please_. If you being gay was the only secret you're worried about keeping, you wouldn't need to keep _Eddie_ out of _all this_ , now _would you?_ "  
  


Richie was pretty sure he gasped, his eyes widening and then immediately glaring at Stan through the screen. Somewhere, Bev muttered " _oh shit_ " under her breath.   
  


"Okay," Bill grumbled. "Would someone _please_ tell me wh-what's up with Eddie? This is like, the third time he's c-come up, now."  
  


In front of them, Mike turned to look up at Bill incredulously, the other Losers quickly following suit. "For real, Bill?" Mike asked. "You _really_ don't know?"  
  


"Wait," Richie gasped again, his mouth going dry as his eyes flew to each Loser. "Do _you guys_ know?"  
  


"Oh, sweetie, of _course_ we know," Bev sighed. "You aren't exactly subtle."   
  


"What the f-fuck are we talking about?!" Bill cried.  
  


Stan, looking just about on the verge of blowing a gasket, threw his hands up into the air. "Oh, for the love of–Richie is in love with Eddie!" he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. Patty stifled a laugh next to him "Jesus, Bill, keep up."  
  


Bill turned to Richie, blinking in surprise. "Wha–? You _do_? Really?"  
  


Richie's mouth fell open. "Y-yes," he squeaked, without his permission.  
  


"For like, a _while_." Bev added, oh so helpfully.   
  


"Since we were kids," Stan agreed.  
  


Ben nodded. "As long as I've known him."  
  


"Okay!" Richie shrieked, feeling himself turning red up to his ears. " _Yes_ , okay? _Yes_. We have officially established that I am in love with Eddie and have been for a very long time. Thank you. There ya go, Bill. Cat's out of the bag! Woo! Though apparently all you chucklefucks knew already, you assholes." He crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "Can we keep working on solving my problem now, please? _Fuck._ "  
  


The conversation fell into an uneasy silence for a few moments, Bill finally breaking it with a quiet, "You guys _really_ all knew?"  
  


Stan groaned and rolled his eyes.   
  


Patty giggled, rubbing his shoulder affectionately. "You know," she mused. "Maybe that did it? That was kind of like talking about your feelings, right?"  
  


Mike nodded, shrugging up at Richie, but Bev was quicker, jumping forward excitedly. "Ooh, let's test it!" She grinned, wiggling excitedly. "Rich, when did you _actually_ lose your virginity?"  
  


"Not until junior year of college," Richie snorted, then immediately frowned. "Ah, fuck."  
  


"Aw, _Bev._ " Bill pouted. " _That's_ what you go with? Any of us that actually wuh-went to high school with him could have told you _that_."  
  


Stan leaned over to Patty, smirking, and stage-whispered, "Rich was a _big_ dweeb in high school." Patty ' _aww_ 'ed affectionately.   
  


"I bet you were _adorable_ , Richie," she cooed as Stan, Bill, and even Richie all reassured her he _really_ wasn't.  
  


Mike beamed. "Well, _Eddie_ certainly thought so. I seem to remember that he thought you were _cool_."  
  


"Eddie w-was literally the only one who thought so," Bill agreed. "Which is a-apparently what Rich was going for, so..."  
  


"You know, speaking of Eddie," Ben interrupted, blessedly bringing them back to the topic at hand, "maybe it isn't enough for Richie to admit he's in love with Eddie to just anyone. Maybe he has to actually tell Eddie."  
  


Richie barked out a loud, involuntary laugh. "Well, too bad _that's_ never going to happen."  
  


The others frowned. "Aw, Richie..." Bev began, but Richie shook his head, cutting her off.   
  


"Nope."  
  


Ben frowned. "Rich–"  
  


"Nope!"  
  


" _Rich_."  
  


"Listen," Richie sighed, dragging a weary hand down his face. "I'm just glad to have Eddie in my life again, alright? We got a good thing going, and I don't want to go and fuck things up by telling him how I feel and making things weird. It's _fine_ , I'll _live_. I'll never truly be happy, but I'll _live_."  
  


"But what if he likes you back?" Patty asked, so hopefully that Richie almost felt bad about snorting indignantly.  
  


"He doesn't. And since I am able to say so right now, you know that's the truth."   
  


"The truth _as far as you know_ ," Bill reminded him. "Which you _don't_. Like the c-capital of Liechtenstein."  
  


Stan raised an eyebrow. "What about the capital of Liechtenstein?"  
  


"He can only lie about things he actually knows, apparently, and he d-doesn't know it, so he isn't able to lie about it."  
  


"It's Vaduz, isn't it? The capital of Liechtenstein?" Ben asked. "I think it's Vaduz."  
  


Bev sighed dreamily, throwing her arms around Ben's neck. "You're so hot and smart."  
  


"All this to say," Mike piped in calmly, biting back his own amusement in an effort to keep everyone on track. "You can't _lie_ , Rich. And it's gonna come out eventually, whether you like it or not. You can't avoid Eddie forever."  
  


"Well, not with that attitude," Richie grumbled.   
  


Bev scoffed. "Sweetie, you are drawn to that man like a moth to a flame. There is _no way_ you'll be able to stay away from him."   
  


"That's–!" Richie began to protest, before choking out a pained "–absolutely true. _Fuck!_ "

  
Bev grinned giddily. "I love honest Richie."  
  


"And d-don't forget about your career, dude." Bill grabbed the little flyer for the local club Richie had been using to test out his new material that was stuck to his fridge and brought it over to him apologetically, pointing at one of the dates. "You have a show tonight."  
  


"Tonight?" Richie squeaked. "Fuck. _Fuuck_." He froze and cleared his throat, standing a little straighter, trying and probably failing to look confident. "No, you know what? That's fine. That's fine! I write my own shit now, most of my set is true shit already, I'll just do a little editing and it'll be fine. Ha! See! Fuck you, I got this."   
  


Stan leveled Richie with a stare, raising an eyebrow in amusement. "You're going to do a stand up comedy show?"  
  


Richie glared back. "Yes."  
  


"Without lying?"  
  


"That's correct."  
  


Stan shook his head. "Bill, Mike, _please_ go and report back to us tomorrow on how badly this goes."  
  


Bill held up his phone triumphantly. "Just b-bought us tickets."  
  


"Okay, you assholes, chuck it up," Richie sang, mockingly. "But I'm gonna figure it out, and I'll never have to tell Eddie shit! It's going to be great!"  
  


_**The next day...  
**_

"So... it wasn't _great_."  
  


The peanut gallery on the screen winced at Mike, some obviously more sympathetic than others.  
  


"Ouch, that bad, huh?" Bev asked, carefully. Bill whistled, shaking his head.   
  


"When this is all over, we're getting Richie into th-therapy."   
  


Richie rolled his eyes, groaning as he threw back his head.  
  


"Oh, do not start, Richard. You _absolutely_ need therapy," Stan snorted. "Have you met you?"  
  


Richie pouted, literally unable to argue.   
  


The set hadn't gone _bad_ , per se. The crowd liked it fine enough. It was just...   
  


Okay, so once he looked back through all his notes and started making edits, he found that the only real, honest to god true stuff in his set was all, well, pretty fucking self deprecating. Richie was pretty sure the audience enjoyed it because they thought he was kidding, but Bill and Mike, unfortunately, knew better.  
  


He managed to fit in a few childhood anecdotal stories here and there; a couple of Losers Club non-clown related misadventures, as well as a particularly good bit about how having the birds and bees explained to him by a middle aged, catholic dentist contributed to scaring him away from vaginas for good that he was delighted to find was grounded in truth.  
  


And yeah, okay, so there was maybe a little material on how he usually spent his nights drinking alone while watching true crime shows, and if a joke or two about being hopelessly in love with his straight best friend snuck their way in there, that didn't... It didn't mean...  
  


Okay, yeah. He was depressed and definitely needed therapy.  
  


Not that he would willingly admit that to anyone else, though.  
  


_No_ , his brain reminded him, mockingly, _Not willingly. He would, however, admit it when forced to during a stand up comedy show in front of his friends and an entire room of strangers thanks to some freaky residual clown bullshit though. Yay!  
  
_

"So, maybe I'm mentally in a weird place right now."   
  


"Rich, just listening to you made _m-me_ need therapy," Bill added.  
  


"Hey, you needed therapy _way_ before last night, and you know it."  
  


"You _all_ need therapy," Patty sighed. Which, fair. He and the rest of the Losers at least all had the decency to look a little agreeable at that extremely accurate observation, but Patty went on. "Richie, sweetie, you can't keep going on like this. You _need_ to talk to Eddie."  
  


And Richie knew that, he _did_. He wasn't as idiot, as much as he liked to pretend otherwise. It was one of the more annoying facets of his personality. He knew that at the end of the day what needed to be done, but...  
  


"I–" He bit his lip. "I'm scared. _God_ , I'm so fucking scared you guys. Like, I've been holding in this shit since I was a _fucking kid_." He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He knew that if he looked at any of the Losers directly, the dams would break.   
  


Little, pathetic, lovesick, teenage Richie flashed through his mind; the flush across his cheeks when Eddie would get too close while they laid together in the hammock, the simultaneous chill and heat that crawled up his spine when their hands would brush, holding Eddie's face in his hands as they faced the literal devil in an old, abandoned house, initials carved secretly into soft wood.  
  


He thought of the years that followed before he moved away; the lingering glances across classrooms, the itch in his palms when he even entertained the idea of pulling Eddie close, the dreams that filled his sleep every night, the fantasies he allowed himself to enjoy only whilst unconscious, kissing, touching, _loving_ in every sense of the word.   
  


In the present, he took a shuddering breath and finally opened his eyes.  
  


"Okay. I– Fuck. I know I need to talk to him. I just... Time. I need some fucking time, okay? I need to sort out my thoughts and–"  
  


_Knock, knock, knock_.  
  


Richie felt the air get immediately sucked out of his lungs and a heavy weight settle uneasily into the pit of his stomach.   
  


No way. No _fucking_ way.  
  


"Is someone at the d-door?" Bill asked somewhere behind him. "Are you expecting anyone, Rich?"  
  


"No," he croaked. Oh god, it _couldn't_ be...  
  


The Losers, both virtual and not, exchanged uneasy glances.   
  


"Should I...?" Mike asked delicately, pointing at the door as the knocking persisted and Richie made zero effort to go answer it. Someone must have given him the go-ahead, as Mike made his way over to the door, and peeked awkwardly out the peephole.   
  


...And immediately hopped away, eyes wide, gesturing wildly. Richie felt the color drain from his face as Mike opened his mouth and stage-whispered the confirmation of his fears, "It's Eddie!"  
  


_Fuck_.  
  


OOO  
  


Eddie Kaspbrak had been officially divorced for just shy of forty-eight hours when he arrived at Richie's Tozier's front door.   
  


All things considered, things could have gone far worse. True, Myra didn't exactly make things _easy_ for him, not that he could blame her, he probably would have been pissed at him too had the roles been reversed, but ultimately, the airtight prenup they had both agreed "was just smart, even though they'll never have any need of it" left little wiggle room for nonsense, and Eddie was, officially, a year post-Derry, a free man.   
  


He had bought a ticket to LA before he had even made it halfway back to his apartment from the lawyer's office.  
  


Richie had offered ( _insisted_ , really) he come visit as soon as things were finalized, promising he needed only a day's notice to get the guest room in order, and he'd be happy to host him for however long he needed to recoup or relax or whatever.   
  


(Secretly, Eddie kind of hoped they wouldn't have need for the guest room if he got up the courage to admit to Richie all the _real,_ embarrassingly _intimate,_ Richie-relatedreasons why he left his wife, but he knew enough to not let himself get his hopes up quite yet. For both his feelings being returned _and_ the confession itself. He was a realist, after all.)  
  


Being nothing if not a polite house guest, he had done one better, texting Richie with a day _and a half_ to spare, informing him of his impending trip the next day and all but begging him to please, for the love of god, hire a cleaning service. Lord knew he had the money, and it wasn't that Eddie didn't trust Richie's cleaning abilities necessarily, it was just that... yeah okay, Eddie in no way trusted Richie's cleaning abilities.  
  


Text sent, Eddie made himself busy doing a few loads of laundry and poking through the refrigerator to clear it of old food he didn't want sitting around rotting for a week, and making himself a mishmash sandwich out of everything he didn't throw out for lunch. After an hour or so, he checked his phone, frowning at the lack of a response from Richie, but decided not to think much about it. Richie was a busy guy, he didn't need to immediately respond to Eddie's texts (even though he usually did). He was probably wrapped up in a meeting or interview or some other famous person thing. No big deal.  
  


Laundry washed and folded, refrigerator successfully cleared out, floors cleaned (no one liked to return from a trip to a dirty living space), and take-out ordered, delivered, and eaten, Eddie once again checked his phone to a surprising zero messages. Brows furrowed, he checked both his private chat with Richie and the Losers group chat, just to be sure, and found both to be unsettling quiet.   
  


_Definitely_ strange for a group that normally never shut the fuck up, but not exactly to the point of being concerning. Frowning, and insisting to himself that he was absolutely, totally cool with the sudden silence of his friends, he plugged in his phone and rolled over to get comfortable in his bed. If he didn't hear back from him by the next day, he'd start asking some questions.   
  


When he woke up, there was still nothing.   
  


Okay, fuck it, now he was getting irritated.  
  


Packing up the last of this things a bit more forcefully than entirely necessary, he sent another series of texts to Richie; providing him his flight information, a simple request to grab him a carton of vanilla almond milk for him to use in his coffee when he arrived if he could, and a totally _not_ desperate, _completely chill, totally polite_ request that he please fucking acknowledge that he is seeing these messages, you fucking asshole, and _confirm that you will fucking be there to pick him up, you fucking fuck.  
  
_

Yup. Totally chill.   
  


He knew he was fidgeting the entire ride to the airport, but if the Lyft driver noticed, she was polite enough to not mention it, and received a five star rating for her trouble. He continued to fidget all through security, and the whole time he waited at his gate, as his phone remained infuriatingly, maddeningly silent.   
  


He put off turning his phone to airplane mode until he absolutely had to, making a promise to himself that as long as he was unable to receive any replies, he would relax, damnit. He had a small collection of podcasts to catch up on, and it was the kind of plane with the little screen on the back of the seat in front of him, so he had plenty of things to keep his mind occupied during the six hour flight. No thinking of Richie and the other's weird radio silence. Nope.  
  


He was, on the whole, maybe thirty-seven percent successful.   
  


And he still had nothing when he turned his phone back on after landing in LA.  
  


As soon as he was off the plane, Eddie called Bill.   
  


" _Hello, you have reached the voicemail box of William Denbrough_ , _author_ ," came Bill's pretentious as all hell voicemail message, unsurprisingly. Bill, unlike Richie, had always been bad about picking up his phone. " _Please leave me a message, and I'll get back to you as soon as I am able. Thank you_."  
  


"Hey _Bill,_ " he spat, marching through the airport, dodging slow-moving Californians who apparently came to the airport that afternoon with the sole purpose of being in his way. "I just landed in LA, but Richie isn't answering his fucking phone, and hey! Neither are you! So, yeah, that's awesome. Cool, cool. So cool. Anyway, I hope someone who lives in this fucking city is waiting for me outside when I get out there, otherwise I am going to be so fucking pissed. See you soon. I hope. For your sake. Bye."  
  


By the time Eddie had made it to baggage, he had left Richie a similarly worded voicemail, and flooded his texts with a string of typo-ridden angry threats. By the time he made it outside to find, unsurprisingly, no one _fucking_ waiting for him, he was literally seeing red, and had seemingly created an invisible, angry forcefield around himself by sheer rage alone as people passing by kept a blessedly wide berth. By the time he gave his rideshare driver Richie's address and settled in for the trip, he had reached an almost zen-like state of calm, a sense of, not quite _peace_ , but something similar, resting fragilely over the boiling white fury below.   
  


The thing was, Eddie had big plans for this trip. Hopes, dreams, and aspirations all hinging on the idea that Richie had invited him to spend time with him post-divorce because he genuinely liked him as a person and enjoyed his company.   
  


The fact that Eddie had a whole-ass revelation about his own sexuality the moment Richie came out to all of them was also part of it, but that was a little harder to unpack.   
  


Eddie knew enough to know he felt a Certain Type of Way™ when he had seen Richie again at the Jade during Clown Showdown 2.0. He had felt the sudden and heavy return of the longing previously felt for the Richie of his adolescence, mixed with the sudden overwhelming thrum of attraction and _want_ for this new, grown-up version, but it wasn't until they had managed to survive and keep in touch and Richie admitted that he was gay in the weeks following that the puzzle pieces started falling into place and the picture started to become clear.   
  


Had all of Richie's stupid, childish teasing actually been flirting all along? Had he really been pulling at Eddie's metaphorical pigtails this whole time?  
  


What did it say about _Eddie_ that he kinda hoped that was the case?  
  


Because the thing about Eddie was, as much as they gave Richie shit about his lack of impulse control, Eddie was, as much as he hated to admit it, just as bad, just in a different way. Where Richie existed in a kind of buzzing, constant stream of not thinking before he speaks or acts, Eddie operated on a kind of swinging pendulum of critical risk and danger analysis on one side, only to swing to the land of 'who gives a fucking fuck?! Let's do this!' on the other.  
  


And, well, Eddie had been on the mindful side for a while. It was time for a little reckless spontaneity.   
  


Which, in this case, meant Eddie intended to find out once and for all how Richie felt about him. No thinking too hard about it. No wife or divorce to tie him down. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. And if the answer was what he hoped it was... _Well._ He had every intention of returning it tenfold.  
  


(He very pointedly decided not to think about what he would do if he _didn't_ get the answer he wanted. Thinking negatively was a sure fire way to ground Impulsive Eddie, so that possibility was being stubbornly overlooked at this point.)  
  


Except Richie had to go all radio silent on him for once in his goddamn life, and throw a giant wrench into things like an _asshole_.   
  


As the car turned into Richie's neighborhood, Eddie briefly wondered if maybe Richie had set his house on fire somehow, with himself and Bill inside. It would certainly explain things, if nothing else. But alas, the house still stood, far too big for one person, and far too beautiful for someone with Richie's tastes, as the car pulled to a stop on the curb outside.   
  


He hadn't actually been to Richie's place in person yet, he realized as he walked up the driveway to the gate. He had poked around and checked it out on Google Maps (and told Richie he really should ask for it to be blurred out for privacy reasons, but Richie didn't seem to care nearly as much for his own safety as Eddie did, so he dropped it), but hadn't been able to gather much from that.   
  


Bill's car was in the driveway, interestingly enough, and Eddie didn't know if that answered any questions or created more. He punched in Richie's five-digit security code (69420, because of course it was. Richie had passed that along to all the Losers at some point as part of his Losers Club open door policy, and Eddie and Stan had given him endless shit about it) and let himself in once the lock clicked open.   
  


Richie had a doorbell, one of those fancy video recording ones, actually, but Eddie knocked. He always felt that anger was easier to portray through knocking.   
  


A small clatter of muted commotion seemed to happen on the other side of the door, which, okay, at least someone was _alive_ in there, but after a few minutes with no answer, Eddie frowned and knocked again, a little harder this time.  
  


"Rich?" he called as he knocked. "Bill? Hey assholes, I can hear you in there! Open up!"  
  


This apparently caused a slightly louder bout of commotion inside, but ultimately lead to the door eventually swinging open to reveal Mike Hanlon, grinning widely and nervously.   
  


Eddie blinked up at him in surprise. "Mike?"  
  


"Heeey Eds!" Mike sang. Behind him, Bill leaned against a wall far too casually to actually be casual and waved. "Fancy meeting you here! Whatcha doin' in Cali?"  
  


"I could ask you the same question." Eddie raised an eyebrow skeptically. Mike continued to grin blindingly. "Hey Bill."  
  


"Heya Eh-Eds! I just s-saw you called! Sorry about that!"  
  


No one moved. Eddie narrowed his eyes and held up his suitcase. "So, are you gonna let me in, or...?"  
  


"Oh, right, right," Mike babbled, moving out of the way for Eddie to step hesitantly into the foyer. "Yeah man, make yourself at home."  
  


Eddie walked a little farther into the room as Mike closed the door behind him and Bill jumped into action, taking his suitcase and disappearing with it _somewhere_. Eddie watched him go warily, turning back to Mike, who all of a sudden looked so uncomfortable to be left alone with Eddie, it would have been almost comical, had Eddie had any sort of clue as to what was going on.   
  


"So," he started awkwardly, looking around. Richie's place was surprisingly nice. Lots of natural light, modern appliances and fixtures, cozy and inoffensive color scheme, all the while dotted with Richie's trademark quirkiness in the form of old movie posters, records, and ridiculous knick-knacks and accents sprinkled around just tastefully enough that you would only notice them if you cared enough to look. It was somehow nothing and exactly like Eddie expected. "Is Richie home?"  
  


Mike and Bill, who had just come sliding rigidly back into the room, exchanged panicked looks. "Uh," Bill drawled, having what Eddie could only assume was an entire conversation with Mike in just meaningful eye contact before muttering stupidly, "Richie who?"  
  


"Oh _Jesus Christ_ , Bill," came Stan's disembodied voice from somewhere deeper into the room. Eddie's eyes widened.  
  


"What the fuck? _Stan?"  
  
_

"Over here, Eddie!" Came Patty's voice right after, immediately followed by Bev helpfully directing him to the laptop sitting innocently on the dining room table. Eddie shot Bill and Mike a bewildered and agitated glower before marching over and clicking the minimized Zoom call back to life.  
  


"Hi Eds," Ben greeted with an embarrassed little smile as the others waved back to him weakly.   
  


Eddie's mouth fell open, his eyes flicking between the faces on the screen before turning back to Bill and Mike. "What _the fuck_ is going on right now?" he cried.  
  


"Oh honey," Bev sighed. "So much."  
  


"Are you all just, fucking, having secret meetings without me now, or something?" Eddie asked, trying not to let the sudden flash of self consciousness and hurt at being purposely left out show on his face.   
  


Thankfully, Patty jumped in to calm him fears immediately, shaking her head. "Oh, no, no, no, Eddie! That's not it at all! It's just..." she trailed off, looking to the others for help.  
  


Stan, sighing, took off his glasses and regarded everyone seriously. "Okay, can we please just tell him?"   
  


"No!" everyone cried, surprising Eddie and causing Stan to groan and throw his hands up in annoyance.  
  


"He's going to find out soon enough!"  
  


"Riche has to tell him himself," Bev insisted.   
  


"No!" Eddie exclaimed, pointing at the screen. "What Stan said! Someone _please_ fucking tell me what's going on! What the fuck are you talking about, why isn't anyone answering my calls, and _for the love of god_ , where _the fuck_ is Richie?"  
  


A heavy silence fell over the room, broken finally by Mike sighing. "Bill, where did Richie run off to?"  
  


Bill blinked. "Um, I th-think he went to hide in his room?"   
  


"He's _hiding_ from me?" Eddie gasped, even though it wasn't as shocking as it should have been, what with the ignoring of phone calls and texts, but still.  
  


"Eddie," Ben piped in, calmly and sweetly. "Richie's kinda going through some... _stuff_ right now. Like, uh, _Deadlights_ stuff."  
  


This was thankfully enough to get Eddie's attention, softening him enough to lower his hackles momentarily. "What?" he asked quietly. "Is he okay?"  
  


"Physically, he's fine," Mike sighed. "But that's why we were talking to Bev and Stan, experience in this kind of stuff, you know? And why I rushed here in the first place. Honestly, we're all actually really glad you got here when you did, Eddie." He smiled at him in that warm way Mike was always able to do that made you believe things were maybe going to be okay. "We can't tell you much more than that, but, heh. I think Richie's got that covered."   
  


Bill snorted, apparently at some inside joke Eddie had yet to be privy to, and grinned, pointing him up the stairs in the direction of what Eddie assumed was Richie's bedroom. "At luh-least you'll be in a good place for this conversation," he quipped.  
  


"Ugh, gross," Eddie heard Stan sigh as he ventured hesitantly over to the staircase, the others giggling shortly after. Eddie had a feeling he didn't want to know.   
  


He also had a feeling he would find out soon enough.  
  


OOO  
  


Richie gave one last glance over his shoulder, scanning the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything important in his rush to escape, and, deciding he was as good as he was going to get, threw his hastily packed duffle bag over his shoulder.   
  


" _Richie?_ " Eddie called through the door, knocking quickly.   
  


"Shit!" Richie cursed, jumping and knocking his knee into his bedside table. "Ow! _Shit!_ "  
  


Eddie seemed to pause at that, but was quick to shake it off and knock again. "Rich!" he growled. To Richie's horror, the doorknob began to turn just as he pushed open the French doors leading outside. "Fuck this, I'm coming in."

  
"What?! Eds! No! _Nonono!_ "  
  


"Oh, fuck you, dude!" Eddie snapped, yanking the door open and storming into the room. "You lost your right to tell me what to do when you fucking ignored me for–What the fuck?"  
  


Richie, one leg swung over the balcony banister, grinned sheepishly. "Eddie!" he squeaked, then immediately after, slapped a hand over his mouth.  
  


Eddie, eyes even larger than usual, gaped at him from the doorway, looking like every single one of Richie's fantasies wrapped up into one compact, tightly wound package. Even clearly exhausted and a little scruffy from traveling, he still looked positively dreamy. Apparently he had been growing out his facial hair. It looked really damn good.  
  


Richie was so fucked.  
  


"Richie, what–? Are you–?" Eddie blinked. "Are you about to jump off the goddamn balcony?!"  
  


Hand still slapped over his mouth, Richie shook his head no as his mouth choked out a muffled, "Yes."  
  


Eddie balked. "Richie! What the _actual fuck?!_ Get back over here, you idiot! You're gonna crack your skull open!"  
  


Richie slinked back over the banister ruefully, keeping his hand over his mouth in a pathetic attempt to keep it under control. "Hi," he greeted lamely. And before he could even think to stop himself, “I miffed fou.”  
  


Eddie scrunched up his nose in annoyance. He looked adorable. "Take your hand off your mouth."  
  


"...Nof."  
  


"Why not?"  
  


"I fon'f fant to."  
  


"Oh my god, you are impossible!" Eddie growled. "First, you fucking ignore me for two days, leaving me stranded at the airport. Yeah, I had to take a fucking Uber here, by the way, fuck you very much. Then! I get here, and oh look, who's that? All of our friends! Just hanging out without me! And what do they tell me? You're hiding from me! So I go looking for you, and find you, fucking, willing to plunge to your death off a goddamn second story balcony!? Because why? I don't know! You're that desperate not to talk to me?! Fuck you, dude." Eddie's chest heaved as he calmed down from his outburst, and to Richie's horror, the faintest glimmer of moisture began to gather in the corner of his eyes in his frustration. "I don't even know why I bother, sometimes."  
  


"No, _Eddie_ ," Richie begged, dropping his hand and his bag and rushing to his side. He'd never been able to handle seeing Eddie upset when they were kids, would always go to ridiculous lenths to cheer him up, even put himself into danger, and some things, he supposed wryly to himself, never changed. "Eds, of _course_ I want to talk to you, I _always_ want to talk to you."   
  


_And see you, and hold you, and kiss you, and make love to you, and marry you..._   
  


He bit his tongue to keep that part from slipping out, and cringed at the pain.   
  


Eddie, blessedly unaware of Richie's internal turmoil, crossed his arms protectively across his chest. "Then what _the fuck_ is going on?"  
  


"Okay," Richie sighed, running his hand anxiously through his hair and blowing a stuttering breath up into the locks that fell awkwardly back over his forehead. "Okay. I'll– _Fuck_. I'll explain, just–" he quickly guided Eddie by his shoulders to sit down on the end of the bed, jumping back just as quick before he could let himself think of anything revealing to say, "–don't, fucking, ask me any questions until I'm done, okay?"  
  


Eddie scrunched up his nose again. "Why can't I ask you any questions?"  
  


"Because I don't want to answer them.”  
  


"Dude!" Eddie gasped, offended.   
  


Richie rolled his eyes. "You asked!" And then a beat later, "And I said no questions!"  
  


"What? That _so_ doesn't count as a question."  
  


"Yes it _so_ does! Now, shut up and let me talk, _like you fucking asked_." Richie, ignoring Eddie's bitchy little huff of annoyance, shook his head and flopped down next to him inelegantly. "Okay, so... The thing is... I can't...lie."  
  


Predictably, Eddie looked skeptical. "What do you mean you can't _lie_?"  
  


"Exactly what I said, dude. Apparently it's some residual Deadlights bullshit." Richie shrugged. "And that was another question."  
  


"Oh, shut the fuck up with your questions," Eddie scoffed, but immediately turned pensive. "So like, your body wont let you lie? Do you like, freeze up when you try? Or is it like an _involuntary truth_ kind of situation?"  
  


"I don't have the need to share my every thought or anything, _thank fuck_ ," he answered dryly, realizing suddenly how fucking happy he was that that was the case. "But if someone asks me a question, I kinda can't help but answer truthfully. Hence the whole asking you not to ask any fucking questions thing, which you are doing _horrible_ about, by the way."  
  


Eddie blushed a little, adorably put out at being called out for his inability to follow directions. "Well, maybe you should explain things better, and I wouldn't have to, you dick."  
  


Richie bit what he was sure was a totally lovesick smile off of his stupid, expressive face, thanking the universe once again that he didn't feel the need to share his every thought. Eddie was still eyeing him critically, so he morphed his sappy grin into something he hoped was a little more casual. "What?"  
  


"Nothing. It's just..." he trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his hands. "How do I even know you're telling the truth about... telling the truth?"  
  


Richie snorted, the irony not lost on him at all. "You don't. I mean, you can ask the rest of the Brady Bunch downstairs to vouch for me, if you want. Or you can ask me incredibly invasive and personal questions to make me prove it like they did." He shrugged. "Your call."  
  


"Oh, so _now_ I'm allowed to ask questions?" Eddie teased. Richie loved him so goddamn much.  
  


"Not that that fucking stopped you." he quipped.   
  


Eddie whacked him lightly in the arm, but snorted out a laugh anyway. "Okay, okay, let me think." He narrowed his eyes in concentration, most likely running through a list of everything and anything he knew and didn't know about Richie. Richie bounced his leg nervously as he waited. Finally, Eddie seemed to settle on something, turning to Richie with his eyebrows furrowed in determination. "Okay, in fourth grade–"  
  


Richie held up his hand, cutting him off. "I already admitted to Bill I did the Mrs. Moron picture."  
  


Eddie sputtered, "What do you mean _admitted_? No shit you did the Mrs. Moron picture. Duh, Rich. Everyone knew that."  
  


"What? No they didn't!"  
  


"Of course they did! Even Mrs. Moran did!" His handsome face split into a cocky little smirk. "She just wanted you fess up to it."  
  


Richie gasped. "What?!"  
  


Eddie grinned. "Yeah, dude! Why else did you think she blamed Bill? She wanted either you to confess or Bill to turn you in!" He chuckled. "She was so mad when it didn't work. Did you really not know that?"  
  


"No!" Richie laughed. "And Bill didn't even know it was me! There's _no way_ he would have taken the blame if he'd known, are you kidding me?"  
  


"Oh god, of _course_ Bill didn't know. I hate that that doesn't surprise me," Eddie sighed, letting himself chuckle.  
  


"I mean," Richie continued shaking his head with a chuckle. "If she really wanted me to own up to it, she should have blamed you. Fuck Bill, I wouldn't have let _you_ take the fall for me."  
  


Shit.   
  


He didn't want to say that.  
  


Eddie blinked at him for a moment, his mouth hanging just a little agape in surprise, before shaking his head and refocusing back on topic, squaring his shoulders in a sudden act of renewed confidence. "Okay, okay, stop distracting me and let me ask my damn question." He waited until he knew Richie wasn't going to interrupt him again, before clearing his throat and continuing. "So, fourth grade. I had that Spider-Man comic that I was like, _obsessed_ with. Remember? We woke up super early the day it came out, and managed to snag the last copy at the comic book store?"  
  


Oh yeah, Richie remembered. He gulped. "Uh-huh."  
  


"Mom threw it away while I was at school one day, because she ' _accidentally'_ spilled milk all over it and decided it would get all moldy and gross." He frowned. "I called you that night fucking _devastated_. But by Monday..." he trailed off, his frown slowly morphing into a small, sweet smile. "By Monday, you showed up to school with a brand new fucking copy for me. You said you randomly ran across it at Secondhand Rose over the weekend and were able to get it dirt cheap."  
  


He turned his big, deep, doe eyes over to Richie, letting them run over his face for any tell. Richie chuckled nervously. "Uh..."  
  


"Rich," Eddie shushed, "did you _actually_ find that Spider-Man comic at the pawn shop like you said?"   
  


Richie grimaced in a poor attempt to look as innocent as possible. "N-no?" he stuttered weakly.  
  


"Oh?" Eddie asked playfully, his eyes lighting up knowingly. If Richie hadn't been shitting his pants, he probably would have found it incredibly attractive. "Where _did_ you find it, then?"  
  


"Uh," he coughed, his voice fighting every urge and instinct he had to _deflect, deflect, deflect!_ "So, I sort of...made Went take me to Bangor so I could check if the stores there had it?" he answered, wincing and adjusting his glasses nervously. "It wasn't a big deal, though, seriously! Dad was going into town that day anyway! And, okay, yeah it was a little pricey, but..."  
  


Eddie smiled softly, slipping his hand onto Richie's rapidly bouncing knee and effectively rendering him silent. "In that case," he continued, his voice just above a whisper, "remember junior year homecoming? You were supposed to go to the dance with Carla Bordeaux, but you showed up at my place the night of the dance with your Nintendo and told me she backed out at the last minute. We played Super Mario until, like, three in morning." He bit his lip, looking up at Richie through his ridiculously long eyelashes. "Did she really cancel on you?"  
  


"Uh..." Richie scratched the back of his neck which was suddenly very warm and sweaty under his ratty t-shirt collar. "Yeah, no. That was all me. I canceled on her."  
  


"And you did that because...?"  
  


"Your, uh, your mom wouldn't let you go to the dance," he explained quietly, face flushing. "I, you know... I didn't wanna go if you weren't going to be there."  
  


Eddie hummed happily in acknowledgement. He scooted a hair closer, and Richie felt his mouth go dry. "One more question," he murmured.   
  


Richie felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Eddie _had_ to be able to hear the steady thrum sitting as close as he was. "Shoot," he squeaked.   
  


Eddie smiled softly, his hand massaging small circles into Richie's knee absently as he gazed up at him, effectively ending Richie's life right then and there. There was no way he didn't know what he was doing, Richie thought desperately. And as if to prove Richie's point, he scooted even closer until his chest was flush against Richie's arm.   
  


"Why?" he asked, delicately. "I know those aren't the only things you've done, Rich. You're always doing things like that for me, even without me knowing. So I just want to know...Why? Why go through the trouble and not take any credit? Why do all of that for me at all?"   
  


" _Eds_ ," Richie breathed, his mouth already moving before he could even let himself think of an answer. " _God_ , Eddie. You know I'd do anything to make you happy."  
  


Eddie smiled warmly, leaning even closer. All Richie had to do was move just a bit forward... "And why is that?" Eddie asked. Richie gulped and licked his lips.  
  


"Because you're my favorite person."  
  


"And?" he prompted softly, moving closer.  
  


"And," Richie gulped, "you look absolutely beautiful when you smile."  
  


On cue, Eddie smiled up at him lovingly. Richie felt like he was on fire. "Because...?"  
  


"Because... I'm totally and completely in love with you," he whispered.  
  


Eddie bit back a grin. "That's what I was hoping you'd say," he teased before finally connecting their lips together in a sweet, soft kiss.   
  


Heat bloomed up through Richie's body as he angled himself into the kiss more comfortably, gently taking Eddie's face in his hands as the kiss deepened, running his fingertips gingerly over his cheek. Eddie sighed, reaching up to run the hand not on Richie's knee through the hair at the nape of his neck.   
  


" _Eddie_ ," he sighed back into Eddie's lips, feeling Eddie's smile against his. “That was way more than one more question, dude. You’re, like, _really_ bad at this.”  
  


“Shut up,” he laughed, adding, "I love you too, asshole," tenderly, and Richie choked back a sob in happiness and relief.   
  


"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he asked cheekily, repeating Eddie's earlier question, just to be a shit.   
  


Eddie rolled his eyes, and in one impressive, fluid motion, pushed Richie back onto the bed, grinning down at him as he swung his leg around to straddle his hips. "Let me prove it," he purred, leaning down to kiss him once again.  
  


Richie, beaming, tilted himself up on his elbows to meet him halfway.  
  


O  
  


"So everything is back to normal now?" Mike asked hopefully once Eddie and Richie had returned back downstairs looking far more disheveled and relaxed than they had before, to absolutely no one's surprise. "You can lie again?"  
  


"I'm six foot four, and Eddie is a better lay than his mom. Yup, lying is back on point–! Ow! _Fuck!_ "  
  


Eddie rolled his eyes, the hand he had used to swat at Richie quickly flipping him off as he laughed heartily next to Eddie on the couch. "There isn't any other weird-ass Deadlights bullshit we have to worry about, right?" Eddie asked Bev and Stan hopefully. "That was it? No more?"  
  


"What are you so grumpy about, you little turd? You got mind blowing sex out of–Ow! Fucking–! Stop that!"  
  


Stan groaned into a laughing Patty's shoulder and Bev giggled, giving them a thumbs up. "As far as we know, you guys are in the clear." She winked. "I did like honest Richie though. Is he hanging around more now?"  
  


"God, I hope not," Stan moaned as Bill nodded gravely in agreement. "Espeshally now that these two are together. I don't need to know _anything else_ about Richie _or Eddie_ , thank you very much."  
  


Richie just grabbed Eddie's hand, giving it a little squeeze and getting one in return. "I dunno. Some truths, dear Bev, the world are not prepared for," he replied, harrowingly. Then, kissing Eddie's knuckles sweetly and earning a small, loving smile in return, grinned wolfishly. "Besides, Stanley's right. I don't think I have anything left to hide."


End file.
